Statistics 2
by LawlietLennoxLove
Summary: Georgi tends to be significantly more likeable when avoided.


Guang-Hong Ji might only be seventeen, and so shy that Christophe had once glanced towards his competitors as he came off the ice after 'Intoxicated' and caught him _blushing,_ but he sure knows how to throw a party.

An extremely _exclusive_ party, Christophe has to say. It's probably a testament to how well-liked the kid already is that a good number of the world's skating elite have turned up - he saw Yuuri, barely able to walk in a straight line but apparently fuelled by a single-minded determination, tug Viktor by the wrist into the bathroom about half an hour ago, and they must've flown in all the way from Russia. Incidentally, they still haven't come out. Emil's beginning to look pretty desperate.

Of course, it could also be a testament to how no self-respecting figure skater would ever pass up the opportunity for lively company and plentiful alcohol. Christophe has never bothered to check, himself, but he's fairly certain that this half of the year, Guang-Hong himself isn't even legal enough for the martini he'd been clutching when he welcomed Christophe through the door earlier in the evening. Naturally, Christophe wouldn't dream of making a fuss - especially as he'd been the one to bring the stripper poles. Now that Yuuri is making the most of his newfound ability to throw himself at his favourite Russian when sober as well as drunk out of his mind (honestly, he's all for spreading some love around, but those two are just disgusting), Phichit's really coming into his own.

Christophe must really be getting old, because much as he appreciates how the Thai skater is putting that spectacular ass to good use, a part of him is telling him that twenty was a long time ago. He shakes his head, downs a toast to his lost golden youth, and makes his way slowly out of the living room, snagging another drink and reacquainting himself with his friends as he goes. Some (Michele) yelp and look distinctly scandalised.

He wanders through Guang-Hong's house until the music fades. When he hears suspicious thumping noises from one of the guest rooms, it takes almost all his self-control not to peek round the door. If he's honest, he's feeling a little put out because he isn't the one starting the year with a bang, as he very well should be. He could offer to join in, but he isn't _desperate_.

It must get lonely living alone in so much space, if only for the winter, he muses. Earlier, Christophe had overheard Phichit saying (roughly one part sympathetic and three parts drunk) that this was a great party, but doesn't Guang-Hong miss his family? To which the kid, not missing a beat, had grinned brightly and declared, like the performer he was born to be, _but you're all my family!_ Christophe wasn't convinced.

He has to jump over miscellaneous items of clothing scattered about the floor of the master bedroom to reach the balcony. Surely he was never that sloppy when he was younger. (Is that _female_ underwear poking out from under the bed? Whatever use Guang-Hong's been putting that to, Christophe is impressed. Hardly thought he had it in him.)

When he slips his palm around the handle and puts his shoulder against the glass to push the door open, eagerly bracing himself for the rush of cold night air, the last thing he expects when he's already most of the way through is for the door to push back. Hard.

"Ow!" he exclaims. If he was going to follow that up with anything else, surreal hysteria smother the words in his throat as, with rapidly mounting horror, he watches the shadows on the concrete floor of the balcony writhe and expand with a life of their own. He drops his drink. This, this is how he dies. He takes it back - twenty-five feels very, very young indeed. _He_ misses his family. And to think, he hadn't even made the podium at the Grand Prix.

Half-frozen with terror, he manages to stagger backwards. A shaft of light falls across the ground where he'd been blocking it before, and -

"Fuck you," says Georgi Popovich.

Oh. Christophe takes a moment to pick up what was left of his drink (thank God for plastic cups) and recover from that embarrassment. At least no-one would know, except -

Ah. Georgi.

Still a little shaken, the first thought that occurs to Christophe is that the other man had looked a great deal better as a terrifying shadow-monster. He'd been crying, that much is obvious from the horrendously puffy red eyes and still-glistening cheeks, although he must've been taking a break when Christophe walked in, because he hadn't heard anything.

"Fuck you, Giacometti," Georgi clarifies, the anguish twisting his features transmuting to rage with alarming speed. The second thought that occurs to Christophe is that Georgi probably doesn't appreciate an audience to what he assumes is a lovely, therapeutic sobbing fit curled up on freezing concrete (until he was interrupted, of course). To be fair, it isn't nearly as attractive as the one he'd had at the kiss and cry at the Trophée de France.

"You must be cold," Christophe says reasonably, because it seems he'll have to be pleasant enough for both of them. That, and he can already feel gooseflesh rising on his arms under his shirt; he marvels that Georgi, dressed only in a flimsy-looking t-shirt, doesn't appear to notice. He's probably had more practice.

"What do you even _want_ ," Georgi snaps. He scrubs a hand across his face, and for all his rancour looks so utterly spent that Christophe, who's run into him at damn near every international championship since fifteen and seen something very similar every time, abruptly feels sorry for him.

"You should really come inside," Christophe insists, reaching out to clasp Georgi's arm (he's shivering, after all). Never let it be said that he isn't responsible. "And anyway, tears drying in the cold is very bad for your skin, you know. Mustn't ruin that pretty face."

"What do you care," Georgi says sullenly, but miraculously allows himself to be guided back into the warmth; he's probably grateful for the excuse to. He only stamps on Christophe's foot once on the way. Tossing his cup over the balcony railing, Christophe follows him in.

"Hey," Christophe says. "It's a party, you shouldn't be upset." He means it: he does feel bad that Georgi's still so hung up on Anya that he can't even let himself have a good time months later, even as he finds the whole thing more than a little ridiculous by now. A less gracious part of him also notes that Georgi has soft-looking lips and passably fine cheekbones. He shifts subtly closer.

Perhaps he wasn't as subtle as he'd thought, because Georgi glares at him as if he were Anya's fiancé.

"I won't," he hisses, outraged. "So you can fuck off now, go find someone - I'm _not_ -"

The mood sours, whatever faint stirrings of interest beginning to awaken immediately curdling in offence and no little anger. He does take a moment to wonder whether he's overreacting, and decides he's more than justified. Georgi doesn't even have the excuse of drunkenness: his glare, bloodshot and venomous with an affront he has no right to, is perfectly steady.

God, At least _he_ isn't bawling his eyes out over someone else's fiancée at one in the morning. That kind of repression takes commitment.

 _Then I'm not asking you to,_ he almost snaps back, except he suspects the effort would be wasted on Georgi. "Alright," he compromises, talking to himself as much as to Georgi. He's reminded of why, despite all the times they've run into each other at competitions, he's yet to make friends or even have a proper conversation with him. Georgi tends to be significantly more likeable when avoided. "It's alright." He breathes out, feels calmer, cooler.

"I am not," Georgi repeats, a little less vehemently. Christophe can't quite tell if that was his version of an apology, or if it was entirely for his own benefit. Probably the latter; he shrugs one shoulder and turns to leave for better company. For all his dramatics, he doesn't believe Georgi would pitch himself over the balcony, or something similarly drastic, and his goodwill only extends so far. The pathetic bastard could go sulk outside again and catch pneumonia this time, as far as he cared.

Something of his thoughts (sharper and angrier than they should be over someone not terribly significant to him, all the more reason for him to walk away, clear his head) must have shown on his face. Just as he's about to slam the door shut, he hears a blurted _'Wait!'._

Whatever Georgi might've wanted to say, he doesn't stay around to find out. Instead, he melts back into the crowd in the living room, where he catches JJ slinking dejectedly away from Mila, who's leaning against the wall and looking faintly amused. Ah, Christophe thinks with a smirk, the path of love - or indeed, raging teenage hormones - is rarely easy. When he's buzzing with a few more drinks inside him and feels more like himself again, he makes for the stripper poles like a man on a mission.


End file.
